The filmmaker sits in the barbershop chair
counting to a thousand and fifty.
The stylist trims as fast as she can,
knowing that he hates this part so much,
but the publicist demands the perfect coiffeur
for the glossy magazine mandatory shot.
He keeps his eyes on the circular hypnosis
of the patriotic candycane of the spinning pole spiral,
listening to 70s country music on the tinny old stereo
trying to remember just how much he tipped last time
and swearing this time to leave even less.
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